


living on your breath

by smutpeddler



Series: i will possess your heart [5]
Category: IT (2017)
Genre: F/M, I mean it's patrick come one, Knife Play, little blood play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 17:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15272901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smutpeddler/pseuds/smutpeddler
Summary: there's always more to taste, more to touch and never enough time.





	living on your breath

**Author's Note:**

> So here ya go. Um...it got a little outta hand. I mean I knew stuff like this was coming I just didn't expect it to happen so soon. But this is what happened and where we are. and ao3 seems to hate my word processor so the formatting always seems to be weird or different. sorry. i try.
> 
> Tumblr; wherewecangazeintothestars.tumblr.com

He pulls her deeper into the dark with him, until they finally stepped into the bright lights of an actual street. She can see him now and he can see her, no doubt different people than the one's who had first walked down that crumbling path. She's never been this close to him before, close enough to see the flecks of light blue amongst the vast ocean of his irises, hair almost ebony with barest flicks of burnt chocolate, almost beautiful, and so much more dangerous. He doesn't speak, just continues his trek as she stumbled along behind him. The night is empty, quiet, most of the windows are dark and there's nothing else but to focus on him. Not that she could imagine focusing on much else. Watching the way his biceps rose when his grip on her hand tightened, the long strides of long, thin legs, there's a heat in the bottom of her stomach. It's familiar. Something that happens late at night when she's alone with her thoughts, thinking about what it would be like to have someone touch her. There's never been a face, a person, just some unseen entity that controls her body, that drags her fingers between her breasts. This isn't that. This is real. It's Patrick, sickeningly erotic as he licks his lips and drags her off the street and onto another. To the junkyard. They'll end this game where it had started this afternoon and begin a whole new one.  
  
The fence comes into few, the “security” lights so bright they seemed to block out the moon. She wouldn't be Nobody here. She wouldn't be Bethany. She'd his. Patrick's. The thought comes back that she should run. Get as far away from him and this place as possible, she shouldn't be here. It wasn't as loud as the ache between her thighs, the way her breath was starting to pant. Only when they're standing in front of the hole does he finally stop, turning towards her with a wicked grin that makes her spine tingle and her body shake. It feels good, really, really good. The kind of good that made her bite her lip, her fingers itched in his grip to trace that ever familiar first path, the beginning of a secret shared between her and the shadows. There are no shadows here, just glaring light.  
“You remember the way, don't cha?” there's no question, he's telling her as he let's go of her hand. She finds herself missing the feel of his flesh, the heat, the aches all grow, “Well, go on. If ya know what's good for ya anyways.”  
  
Like she could've done anything else, she slips through the hole in the fence just as easily as the first time, not coating herself in dirt and blood when she'd ran from him and his gaze. A few steps forward and she feels his arm around her neck, pulling her close and tight with the crook of his elbow and leading her passed the cars, that rusty, falling apart dryer, and deeper still into his lair. Can he feel her breath shaking? Her hot skin? The arousal flowing off her skin in waves? Bethany doesn't know, the mechanics of this all very much a mystery.  
  
“Here.”  
  
It's some sort of makeshift fort made from mismatched posts and pilfered pieces of metal siding. A fridge stands almost hidden in the corner, a big shiny gold lock on it. Cigarette butts, beer cans, and the remnants of whatever he did for fun littered the ground. The bits of fur and dirtied bones should be what hold her gaze, but she's too far gone. No. It's the back seat of a car that's been dragged into his abode, almost a couch. She's heard whispers of the things that happened here with the few girls daring or dumb enough to think that everything they heard about Patrick Hockstetter was only rumor. The rumors hadn't done it justice, if Brenda Arrowhead was anything to be believed. Though why would she lie when Nobody was listening.  
  
His arm slithers across her shoulders, away, making it easier to stand in front of her. One hand grabs the hair on the back of her head, forcing her eyes from the ground up to his own, it made her neck snap and ache but she wouldn't let it show. Not when there were so many other things to think about. Keeping her breathing steady, slowing her heartbeat, trying not to rub her thighs together for any sort of friction.  
  
“Who was the first one? The first asshole to slither in those pretty panties,” trying to embarrass her, to make her uncomfortable.  
  
Nothing could make her more uncomfortable than here and now, wanton in a way she'd only read in those stupid porn magazines boys left lying around, “No one,” her voice almost defiant and yet knowing somehow that answer would be so much worse.  
  
He hummed low in his throat, deep, almost appreciative, “No one? Really?” keeping his grip tight as his fingers toyed with the zipper on her jacket, “You ever play with yourself?” she swallowed hard, “Yes?” his fingers pulled at that little piece of metal, the one that would expose much more of her than she'd ever intended, “What do you do?” she wants to close her eyes, turn her head, just let him take what he wants but it can't be that simple. He won't let her and somehow that's even worse, “You can show me or I can guess, but most girls don't like that one,” finally coming to the end, the metal sliding with a click.  
  
“I don't think I'm most girls,” her skin erupted with goosebumps when the cold night air hit her bare torso, her thin, small bra doing nothing to shield against the wind.  
  
His hand completely covers the left side of her rib cage, hot and bruising, “Wanna know what I think?” he leaned in close, pressing his lips to the shell of her ear, “I think you're a sick, little girl,” there was no time to respond before his teeth clamped hard into the sensitive lobe of her ear.  
  
The shriek tore from her throat like a demon, everything seemed to give in all at once. Hips thrust towards his, fists clench the collar of his dirty t-shirt, the pain is different from when she tries herself. It's unrelenting, surprising, she needs- “More,” it's not even a whisper, barely a breath, but it floats on the wind all around them.  
  
This time it's the side of her neck, deep, almost enough to break skin, her neck lolls before he has the chance to yank it there, she doesn't know what more means, what exactly she wants more of, she just wants it. Needs it. Craves it. There's not enough skin, enough friction, enough. His hand is gone from her hair, all she knows is he's not touching her. Then there's cold against her cheek, something familiar.  
  
“You said more,” pulling away slowly and glancing ever so slightly downward she can see the handle of the stiletto in his hand  
  
She swallows hard doing her best to keep her hips pressed to his as she pulled off her jacket. There aren't many scars, she always hated arguing with her mother over dirty laundry. But they painted an almost picture, just enough for Patrick to see. He glides the tip down the curved of her jaw, her neck, before coming to rest on the curve of her breast just above the cup of her bra.  
“Kiss me first,” it feels almost silly to say when they were already here, everything that kissing was supposed to lead up to, “Please.”  
  
It surprises her that he obliges, though maybe it's part of it all. The force of it splits their lips, the taste of copper on their tongues, the blade presses into sensitive flesh, she shrieks again and he catches his bottom lip between his teeth. His tongue swipes over the bleeding cracks as he suckles for more of the taste. Blood wells hot yet somehow falls cool across her skin before pooling just behind the front clasp and trickling slowly beneath it. Her hands gripped his hair just as tightly as he had gripped hers, pushing her body as close to his as possible. The knife falls with a soft thud, hands gripping her hips now, pulling her tighter and tighter so she can feel exactly what she's doing to him. Every nerve ending on fire. They almost don't hear the boys, almost. Much closer than either of them would like.  
  
Unwillingly he pulls away from her, admiring his handy work. Her skin flushed red, lips swollen and bleeding, panting breaths making the blood fall in different rivers down her skin, and aching. He wants her now, but that's not going to happen. He glances behind just for a few seconds, trying to gauge how close his friends are, when his eyes turn back she's gone. A dream he'd conjured up.  
  
Wasn't that exactly what she was? She wasn't real. Just Nobody. But how could he taste her? Feel her? How could Nobody be so real?


End file.
